On the rationality of the human species

There's a sucker born every minute - Hannum not Barnum

An MBA American colleague of mine relates this 21st Century American moral tale:

A person is asked, "If you were about to buy a hamburger for $10:00 and someone told you they were only $7:00 down the road what would you do?"

"I'd get the cheaper one", is the expected reply.

"And if you were about to buy a suite for $1,799 and someone said they were only $1,796 down the road, then what?"

Most people apparently say that they'd just pay the $1,799, rather than take the trouble to walk the few blocks.

I assume that the moral of this story, is that people are just plain silly. In both cases of course the same amount is saved - $3. But people somehow judge on percentage, rather than what they'd actually save. And $3 is $3, no matter what you are spending.

It was with this in mind that I realised my own folly, today - the day of the hair-cut.

I needed a hair-cut. Badly. And prices being what they are in Manhattan, I tend to only go to a good New York stylist once a year. I usually book in to have my hair cut when I am in Melbourne. $160AUD does not seem exorbitant after what I'm used to in New York.

But I've not been in Melbourne for some five months and there was just no way I could live with the bedraggled mess that my hair had become.

There was no alternative. I booked into my favorite hair stylist at Frederic Fekkai's, in the Dior building on 57th Street between 5th Avenue and Madison.

Despite the fact that I hadn't been there or over a year, the computer remembered me, and the smart young thing on the phone reminded me of the name of my cutter. "BUT", she said, "he's put his price up, it is $150 instead of $135 now."

Unphased, and pushing conversion rates to the Aussie dollar to the dark recesses of my mind; in a complete state of denial, I booked. What choice was there? Australians of both sexes are fussy about their hair here, and have trouble finding someone who they are happy with.

What DID jolt me however was the rapid calculation I immediately made, not of what this $150 represented in Australian dollars, but of the of the obligatory tips. I'd have to tip my cutter AND the assistant who washes the hair. And possibly the blow-dryer person. Three people at double the tax (8.25% times 2). Would that apply three times to the $150. If I didn't tip enough, would I be allowed back?

These worries tormented me. The $150 plus tax was already spent in my mind. But the tips... Like most Australian New Yorkers, I still find it hard to tip, but at the same time realise that when in Rome...

So off I trotted shoving my tip conflict and inbuilt-Australianess to the back of my brain.

I looked in the Dior window before I entered the building. A minimalist window display offered a lone plastic model in a simple blue swimsuit and shirt. Very New York. I peered inside to the store itself. A couple of very rich women were standing around glass cases. There appeared to be no clothes on display, just jeweler-type glass cabinets under the counters. I though of going in, to poke around, but it was so off-putting I decided to make my way up the elevator to Frederic Fekkai's salon.

A sign on a door said "Tower One". I immediately though of 9-11 and faltered. Then I noticed a line at the concierge's desk. Identification was required to pass by to the elevator. Dutifully the New York women, clients of Frederic, were showing their licenses. I can't imagine a more un-terrorist like crowd.

I declined the offer of the check-out person to take my jacket as I was handed my robe on my way to the changing room. Meanness had struck and I had no intention of paying a $2 obligatory tip for the privilege of taking off my lightweight obligatory black jacket.

The robe fitting uncomfortably over my fully-clothed body, congratulating myself on saving two bucks, I proceeded to the elevator to the floor designated to hair cutting. I tried not to notice the floors above and below - devoted to eyebrows, café, massage, colorist etc. Another day perhaps, when I was more generous with myself.

Of course the hair-cut was worth every cent and I had no regrets. The young woman next to me had her hair striped blue-green, the exact same color of her startling forget-me-not sea-green eyes. With perfect features and skin, she'd make Nicole Kidman look like a frump. The male "floor walker" whose sole task is apparently to direct people to their stylist, looked like an Anglican bishop's fantasy. Eat your heart out Oscar!

I was recommended to use a special protein shampoo once a week and a "technical shampoo" on the other days. I'd already paid but "the computer would know" on my way out...

On my way out I did in fact splurge another $80 and bought some shampoos and conditioners. A least I didn't have to tip the cashier for them. Just pay the 8.25% sales tax. And the wrapping was so perfect (see photo).

Like the other women queuing to pay hundreds of dollars, I pushed my Platinum American Express card toward the cashier who looked like she had stepped from the cover of Vogue. Fleetingly I thought, "I have become just one of the crowd". A relatively affluent New Yorker. And it was true.

Stepping out into the windy gray outside of Manhattan, what did we all do? Traipse to the bus stop of course. Our perfectly blow-dried pampered hair being undone in a matter of minutes.

No cabs for us! After all, it would cost $8:00 (plus tip) to go home in comfort. And only $1.50 on the bus.

No contest. After all, we humans are rational creatures.

Kate Juliff
New York
June 2002